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I realize that nothing belongs to her anymore and she belongs to everything.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Realize
Realizing
Everything
Nothing
Belongs
Anymore

More quotes by Markus Zusak

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Summer came. For the books thief, everything was going nicely. For me, the sky was the color of Jews.
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It is early, early morning. It's that time when it's still dark but you know the day is coming. Blue is bleeding through black. Stars are dying.
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It's insane to be a writer and not be a reader. When I'm writing I'm more likely to be reading four or five books at once, just in bits and pieces rather than subjecting myself to a really brilliant book and thinking, Well what's the point of me writing anything? I'm more likely to read a book through when I take a break from writing.
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Grimly, she realized that clocks don't make a sound that even remotely resembles ticking, tocking. It was more the sound of a hammer, upside down, hacking methodically at the earth. It was the sound of a grave.
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My own eyes try to sleep, but they don't. They stay wide awake as time snarls forward and silence drops down, like measured thought.
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If I ever leave this place- I'll make sure I'm better HERE first.
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Because you don't learn anything unless you can find the patience to read. TV takes that away from you. It robs you from your mind.
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You can't eat books, sweetheart.
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I am hunted by humans.
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Rosa Hubermann was sitting on the edge of the bed with her husband's accordion tied to her chest. Her fingers hovered above the keys. She did not move. She didn't ever appear to be breathing.
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Outside is dark. The kitchen light is loud. It deafens me as I walk towards it.
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I like to tell students, 'I didn't burst on to the literary scene.' I'm never good at things at the beginning. I was terrible at the start. I need to work and work.
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THE LAST WORDS OF MAX VANDENBURG: You've done enough.
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Shadows of cloud lurked in the water, like holes the sun forgot about.
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It was one of those moments of perfect tiredness, of having conquered not only the work at hand, but the night who had blocked the way.
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All my friends seem to be smart arses. Don't ask me why. Like many things, it is what it is.
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I feel the fear, but I walk fast toward it.
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How about a kiss, Saumensch?
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The flyscreen door slammed behind me. My feet dragged. I reached each arm into the jacket. Warm sleeves. Crumpled collar. Hands in pockets. Okay. I walked.
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I want to talk to him. I want to ask him about that girl and if he loved her and still misses her. Nothing, however, exits my mouth. How well do we really let ourselves know each other? There's a long quietness until I finally break it open. It reminds me of someone breaking bread and handing it out. In my case, I hand out a question to my friend.
Markus Zusak